And I Darken
Page 72
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Seeing her now, though, engulfed him in a rush of empathy. He crossed the room, exchanging greetings and promises to dance later, until he reached her. “Lada?”
She blinked, eyes slowly focusing on him. “What,” she said, her tone flat and lacking any inflection.
“Would you like to dance?”
Her forehead shifted, expression sharpening with a hint of the old Lada. “Do you hate me that much?”
He laughed. “It could be fun.”
“Yes, I love humiliating myself in front of hundreds of strangers.”
“You cannot be worse than Nebi Pasha’s wife. She has all the grace of a pregnant sow.”
Lada snorted. “Yes, and I have all the grace of a speared and dying boar.”
“Even a speared and dying boar can still kill a man.”
This, finally, teased a smile, though she quickly bit it back.
“Come on. Remember how we used to dance when we were little?”
“I remember wrestling you to the ground and pushing your face into the hearth’s ashes.”
“Exactly! And remember all the time you spent training with the Janissaries?”
“Yes, training to fight.”
“Fighting is just like dancing! Only I end up with marginally fewer bruises.” Radu held out his hand and, to his surprise and delight, she took it.
Lada was, in truth, an oddly graceful dancer. While there was nothing beautiful about her movements, there was a flow and power to them that was arresting to watch. Her sense of her own body moving through space was instinctive, well honed after so many years of training to fight. And if her expression looked as though she were plotting to murder her partner, well, Radu was used to that.
He had missed it, actually.
Moving in a circle with other dancers, they passed Nebi Pasha’s wife. Radu levied a significant glance at her, then raised his eyebrows at Lada, who let out a loud bark of laughter, not quite muffled by the music. He barely managed to stifle his own laugh as they finished the dance.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, still laughing. “You were right! She does move like a pregnant sow.”
Radu nodded solemnly. “There is a veritable farm’s worth of dance partners here, and I have spun in circles with all of them.”
“Tell me what kind of animal Huma is.”
“A cat with weak hips, too proud to give up mousing.”
She snickered, keeping her face hidden in his shoulder. “And Halil Pasha’s wife?”
“An ill-tempered goose with flapping flat feet.”
“What of Mehmed’s dear bride? What animal is she?”
“Yes,” a low voice interrupted. “What is my bride?”
Lada jerked, jumping away from Radu. They both stared at the floor rather than meet Mehmed’s eyes. This was the first time Radu had been close to him at any of the celebrations. Mehmed was always separated by a draped cloth or by a ring of dignitaries, always at the side of Sitti Hatun.
“We must offer our congratulations on your wedding,” Radu said.
“Stop.”
Radu looked up, surprised by Mehmed’s sharp tone.
“Please, not you, too. I cannot stand any more of this—” He waved his hand to encompass the room and everyone in it. “Do not tell me this nightmare has stolen my only two friends as well.”
Lada said nothing, looking at Mehmed with eyes that burned darker than the coal braziers.
Radu chanced a small smile. “Perhaps she is a songbird?”
Mehmed snorted in derision. “Clearly you have not heard her voice if you think that. No, my precious bride is like a cornered mouse, trembling and squeaking and utterly worthless.”
Perhaps the meanness in Radu’s chest had not been extinguished, after all, because he swelled with joy hearing this. “She is lovely, though,” he offered, whether to combat his own pettiness or in hopes that Mehmed would contradict him, he did not know.
“She is a waste of air.” Mehmed rolled his head from side to side, stretching, an angry energy to his movements. “I want to dance.”
Radu looked to the raised dais where Mehmed’s bride still sat, forlorn. It looked as though she had been crying. “I do not think Sitti Hatun wants to—”
“Not with her,” Mehmed snapped. He held out his hand to Lada. Radu stared, noticing after a few seconds that Lada was doing the same. Only she did not look at Mehmed’s proffered hand with confusion. She looked at it with rage.
“Now?” Her voice trembled with the force of keeping it quiet. “Now you want to dance? Now you want to speak with me?” The coals in her eyes had burst into flames. Radu took a knowing step back, but rather than striking, Lada turned on her heel and ran from the room.
She blinked, eyes slowly focusing on him. “What,” she said, her tone flat and lacking any inflection.
“Would you like to dance?”
Her forehead shifted, expression sharpening with a hint of the old Lada. “Do you hate me that much?”
He laughed. “It could be fun.”
“Yes, I love humiliating myself in front of hundreds of strangers.”
“You cannot be worse than Nebi Pasha’s wife. She has all the grace of a pregnant sow.”
Lada snorted. “Yes, and I have all the grace of a speared and dying boar.”
“Even a speared and dying boar can still kill a man.”
This, finally, teased a smile, though she quickly bit it back.
“Come on. Remember how we used to dance when we were little?”
“I remember wrestling you to the ground and pushing your face into the hearth’s ashes.”
“Exactly! And remember all the time you spent training with the Janissaries?”
“Yes, training to fight.”
“Fighting is just like dancing! Only I end up with marginally fewer bruises.” Radu held out his hand and, to his surprise and delight, she took it.
Lada was, in truth, an oddly graceful dancer. While there was nothing beautiful about her movements, there was a flow and power to them that was arresting to watch. Her sense of her own body moving through space was instinctive, well honed after so many years of training to fight. And if her expression looked as though she were plotting to murder her partner, well, Radu was used to that.
He had missed it, actually.
Moving in a circle with other dancers, they passed Nebi Pasha’s wife. Radu levied a significant glance at her, then raised his eyebrows at Lada, who let out a loud bark of laughter, not quite muffled by the music. He barely managed to stifle his own laugh as they finished the dance.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, still laughing. “You were right! She does move like a pregnant sow.”
Radu nodded solemnly. “There is a veritable farm’s worth of dance partners here, and I have spun in circles with all of them.”
“Tell me what kind of animal Huma is.”
“A cat with weak hips, too proud to give up mousing.”
She snickered, keeping her face hidden in his shoulder. “And Halil Pasha’s wife?”
“An ill-tempered goose with flapping flat feet.”
“What of Mehmed’s dear bride? What animal is she?”
“Yes,” a low voice interrupted. “What is my bride?”
Lada jerked, jumping away from Radu. They both stared at the floor rather than meet Mehmed’s eyes. This was the first time Radu had been close to him at any of the celebrations. Mehmed was always separated by a draped cloth or by a ring of dignitaries, always at the side of Sitti Hatun.
“We must offer our congratulations on your wedding,” Radu said.
“Stop.”
Radu looked up, surprised by Mehmed’s sharp tone.
“Please, not you, too. I cannot stand any more of this—” He waved his hand to encompass the room and everyone in it. “Do not tell me this nightmare has stolen my only two friends as well.”
Lada said nothing, looking at Mehmed with eyes that burned darker than the coal braziers.
Radu chanced a small smile. “Perhaps she is a songbird?”
Mehmed snorted in derision. “Clearly you have not heard her voice if you think that. No, my precious bride is like a cornered mouse, trembling and squeaking and utterly worthless.”
Perhaps the meanness in Radu’s chest had not been extinguished, after all, because he swelled with joy hearing this. “She is lovely, though,” he offered, whether to combat his own pettiness or in hopes that Mehmed would contradict him, he did not know.
“She is a waste of air.” Mehmed rolled his head from side to side, stretching, an angry energy to his movements. “I want to dance.”
Radu looked to the raised dais where Mehmed’s bride still sat, forlorn. It looked as though she had been crying. “I do not think Sitti Hatun wants to—”
“Not with her,” Mehmed snapped. He held out his hand to Lada. Radu stared, noticing after a few seconds that Lada was doing the same. Only she did not look at Mehmed’s proffered hand with confusion. She looked at it with rage.
“Now?” Her voice trembled with the force of keeping it quiet. “Now you want to dance? Now you want to speak with me?” The coals in her eyes had burst into flames. Radu took a knowing step back, but rather than striking, Lada turned on her heel and ran from the room.
